


Well there are SOME things that Jon Snow knows

by KByrd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, different POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:32:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7956958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KByrd/pseuds/KByrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Ygritte, meeting Jon Snow is about the most exciting thing that's ever happened in her life. Here's how their relationship grew, starting from her point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Being woken in the middle of the night with a knife to her throat is terrifying.

“Will you yield?” the man kneeling over her demands.

“I yield,” she agrees swiftly. It seems the safest thing to do.

The man hauls her roughly to her feet. It’s pitch black and cold.

The man is almost invisible, dressed all in black, and he’s accompanied by another man, impossible to see in the darkness. Ygritte realizes that they must be Black Brothers and her blood runs cold.

Her two companions, who were alive and well when she curled up in her sleeping skins mere minutes before, are now dead and bleeding out into the hard ground.

Ygritte is sure she is about to die.

Free folk are tough and fight like wildcats, but every one of them has heard stories of the ferocity of their sworn enemies.

The veterans, who have faced men of the Night Watch for years and lived to tell tales, warn young fighters not to take them lightly.

“You may sneer and call them ‘crows’,” the veterans warn, “but every one of them is armoured in plate mail so they’re just about invincible and they’re armed with castle-forged steel that will go through your sword, not to mention your arm, like a knife through butter.”

When free folk get to bragging in their cups around the fire, the veterans will shoot them down. “No matter how well you fight, never take a crow for granted,” they say. “Every man of them is trained since childhood. They fight like demons, they’re impervious to pain …”

Ygritte catches her breath and the black brothers argue briefly about what to do with her.

“Give her half a chance and she’ll bury that axe between your eyes,” the other one warns her captor.

“I won’t give her half a chance,” he retorts. He turns to her, “do you have a name?”

“Ygritte.”

Faced with a vision from her nightmares, Ygritte does what she always does – she opens her big mouth and talks back. Part of her is thinking that if she gets them talking, she might be able to find a chink in their armour. Part of her is just trying to die bravely, NOT whimpering and begging for mercy. She lifts her chin and demands her attacker’s name. And to her utter astonishment, he gives it to her – Jon Snow.

Ygritte has no idea of the significance of the name, but the other crow teases her attacker about giving away information and suddenly they are not faceless soldiers, but MEN – individuals who banter and argue.

She advises them to burn the bodies of her former companions, but does not object when the brothers throw them over the edge instead. She will mourn later.

They ask her questions idly, with no edge. They don’t threaten her.

Jon Snow tells her that he is a son of Lord Stark of Winterfell. He tells it plainly, not bragging, but Ygritte understands the implication. A lord’s son, all this way in the North.

He seems to be somewhat nervous. He pulls out his sword at the sound of the Shadowcats and Ygritte dares to sneer (a little) at his fear. She senses that he might be a soft touch, maybe less experienced than the other. Maybe a spoiled boy on his first ranging.

So she tells him of Bael the Bard and his visit to Winterfell and to her surprise, both brothers listen intently to the tale. Afterwards, Jon is dismissive of the lesson, but Ygritte suspects that the tale has rattled him somewhat.

At dawn, a huge white direwolf appears without warning and far from being scared, the brothers greet him warmly as if he were no more than a tame dog. Jon roughhouses with the monster and Ygritte realizes warily that there is more to him than she realized.

Her resolve to be brave is tested when the rest of their group of Night Watch brothers appears and she learns that they are led by the terrifying Qhorin Halfhand – a man who is legend even among the free folk.

But he is just a man – not an eight-foot monster with flashing eyes and a voice so terrifying that it renders grown men paralyzed.

At least he doesn’t paralyze Ygritte.

He takes her aside and questions her firmly, but threatens her neither with rape nor death.

The brothers debate her fate.

Now that dawn has come, Ygritte can see them. They are no longer faceless automatons, but living, breathing men. Jon Snow is younger than she had initially thought. In fact, the scruffy, patchy beard he sports is so soft and wispy, she suspects that it is his first attempt.

The way Halfhand speaks to Jon makes Ygritte wonder at their relationship. Maybe mentor and student? It’s more than merely commander and subordinate.

Halfhand orders Jon to do “what needs be done” and leads the rest of the black brothers away.

Her strategy of talking and telling stories has kept her alive so far so she keeps talking when they are left alone on the cold, barren rock.

“You never killed a woman before, did you?” she asks.

He glares at her and shakes his head wordlessly.

Weak, she thinks. Too soft for this harsh environment. She could manipulate him if only she knew just what to say. Begging won’t work, but maybe he would admire bravery, even if false?

“Will you burn my body?” she babbles, hoping she sounds tougher than she feels.

He lifts his terrifying sword – castle-forged steel no doubt and she holds herself tight praying that she can remain brave.

“Strike hard and true,” she demands, fighting to keep control.

He lets the sword touch her neck and she trembles.

“I can’t stay brave forever,” she snarls.

Then he pulls the sword away and lets her go.

She hesitates a moment, wondering if it’s a trick.

As soon as she realizes that he’s serious, she runs like a jackrabbit, scooting around a spur of rock and jumping over a stream until she is sure that he is not pursuing. She stumbles and falls to all fours, but scrambles to her feet and keeps running. She is so hungry and tired and stressed from the experience that it is all she can do not to vomit up her last meagre meal. She sobs, fighting back tears.

But eventually, she pulls herself together and makes her way down the hill to catch up with the ragged band of free folk below the hill.

 

**

When they finally run the Night Watch brothers to ground, Ygritte is not the slightest bit surprised to see that the last two black brothers standing are Halfhand and Jon Snow. They’ve made a stand at the mouth of a cave. Good territory. Tough for the wildings to get to them. She pushes and shoves her way to the front of the crowd just in time to see Jon stumble towards Rattleshirt, his hands up, claiming to be craven and wanting to turn his cloak.

Halfhand sneers an insult.

“No way!” Ygritte exclaims.

No-one takes any notice of her.

“Not in a million years,” she says to the spearwife standing next to her.

She can’t understand why anyone in the crowd would believe this farce. It’s rare enough for a black brother to turn his cloak, but this guy? This arrogant, castle-raised son-of-a-lord …?

Ygritte pulls off her helm. “He is no craven,” she tells Rattleshirt. “This is the Bastard of Winterfell, who spared me.”

Rattleshirt wavers. Ygritte hates him. A nasty, cowardly, grasping, weak man who rules by decree and takes what he can. She does not want him to get credit for anything.

It’s perfectly obvious to her that the black brothers have cooked up some kind of scheme, but she prefers that Mance deal with them.

“Let him live,” she hears herself arguing.

Rattleshirt is not likely to take any notice of her, but she wants to fight anyways.

Jon shoots her a guarded look. He looks bone-weary. “You told me that Mance would take me,” he reminds her, his voice raspy and gruff.

Rattleshirt is irritated. “Mance is not here,” he blusters.

The spearwife who stands next to Ygritte looks annoyed. She has her own reasons for disliking Rattleshirt. “Let him prove the truth of him,” she suggests, meaning Jon.

Rattleshirt glowers. His ‘control’ of the group is tenuous enough that he dares not disregard the other leaders. 

“Kill the Halfhand, bastard,” he orders Jon. The crowd gasps. Halfhand is such a legend that most free folk see him as invincible, unkillable.

But the young crow pulls out his longsword and several people near Ygritte begin to mutter.

The Halfhand strikes first, but the bastard meets his swing with his own silvery sword.

The battle is astonishing.

Ygritte has trained for years to wield a sword, to fight with knives and axes, and to parry with rough-hewn weapons, but she’s never seen anything like this battle between Jon Snow and Halfhand. They move so fast. They slash so swiftly that their swords whistle and sing in the hush. The steel rings loudly whenever they clash and Ygritte wonders at the power in their swings.

By rights they should be exhausted from the chase, but they fight with terrible ferocity.

Ygritte wonders if castle-forged steel is magically light considering how the men thrust and parry and swing them around as if the swords were extensions of their arms.

The steel glitters in the dimming light.

And suddenly, the white direwolf rushes in to defend Jon and sinks his teeth into Halfhand’s leg.

Jon’s sword sings a deadly song as he swings it down upon Halfhand.

And the battle is over.

Ygritte is furious and the free folk behind her are muttering superstitiously. A legend has died.

Jon is on his knees, his sword on the ground in front of him.

Still Rattleshirt scowls. “Gut him,” he orders.

“He yielded,” Ygritte reminds him, furious again at the lack of respect and honour.

She cares not one tiny bit for the silly boy. Some lord’s bastard son, raised in a castle, soft and weak, he probably sings maiden songs and is used to sleeping in a feather bed. Maybe he thought ranging in the North would be a fun adventure like a camping trip.

But she hates Rattleshirt and she thinks her own honour might be caught up in Jon’s fate. She told him Mance would take him so she defends Jon to the free folk.

She will watch him, she resolves to herself.

 

**

So as they march towards Mance, Ygritte sticks close to Jon.

She eats with him and sleeps next to him and watches who he talks to.

For his part, Jon seems stunned. He stumbles along, silent and grim, his face a mask that hides any emotion.

It’s not until they get to the main camp that he becomes more alert. Ygritte watches as he takes note of the camp’s defences, the arrangement of the tents, the crews crafting weapons and fletching arrows …

He’s scouting, she realizes sadly.

At least Jon makes no effort to harm Mance when they meet. It HAD occurred to Ygritte that he might be on a suicidal mission to assassinate their king. But he kneels respectfully and tells Mance that he wishes to be free.

After they speak privately, Mance allows Jon to stay, but he charges several trusted people to keep an eye on him. Ygritte does not need to be told – she’s already resolved to watch Jon until she knows exactly what he and Halfhand cooked up.

She’s not the only one curious. One evening, Jon is invited to share a meal at a fire with half a dozen spearwives, led by Fara, an old wizened crone.

Rumour has it that Fara was a great beauty in her youth, but there is no one left to confirm the tales. She was a great warrior as well and when she got too old to wield weapons, she turned to crafting them. In fact, she taught Ygritte how to fletch her arrows. Now her eyes are too clouded and her hands too shaky to make weapons, but she remains the keeper of the history of the free folk.

She starts her ‘interrogation’ of Jon the same way she always does.

“Tell me of your father, boy,” she demands in a wavery voice. “Might be I knew him well …”

Jon smiles easily. “My father is Lord Eddard Stark,” he tells her. “Lord of Winterfell.”

“From the other side of the wall,” Fara nods. “Any relation to Roderick Stark or Bran?”

Jon frowns. “My grandfather was Roderick Stark,” he admits. “And Bran is a common Stark name, but I’m not sure which one you mean. My father had an older brother called Brandon.”

Fara smiles, showing toothless gums. “And Benjen Stark, bane of our existence?”

“My uncle,” Jon agrees. “First Ranger.”

“Hard men,” Fara says thoughtfully. “Tough, honourable. What would they say to you sitting at our fires?”

Jon bites his lip and makes no response.

“And your mother?” Fara presses. “Up here in the North, we count that side too.”

“I don’t know,” Jon says. “I’m bastard born.”

“So?” she says sharply. “You must know something. Where were you born?”

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “I was raised at Winterfell. Lord Stark did not see fit to answer my questions about my mother.”

Ygritte watches him carefully. He gives nothing away, but she suspects that this lack of information bothers him. How can it not? But his face is a mask and his body language is calm and relaxed. Only his wolf shows any agitation, walking around the outside of the fire with his ears twitching and tail held stiff.

“Ghost,” Jon murmurs, and the direwolf returns to his side.

Everyone around the fire notices the eerie control Jon has over his wolf and no-one says a word.

Fara keeps asking questions and Jon answers them, talking easily of his half-brothers and sisters.

It will not do, Ygritte thinks uneasily. He is close to his family; he seems to want their respect. Why would a man like him risk losing them?

She asks more questions the next day when they are hiking along a ridge.

“Did you get along with your brother Robb, the one closest to you in age?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he answers. “We fought, we played together … we were true brothers in almost every way.”

“Is he at Winterfell now?”

“No, last I heard, he was marching South to take on the Lannisters in King’s Landing.”

“Really?” Ygritte is startled. “That seems reckless.”

Jon nods. “He’s gone to rescue our father who has been taken captive. Last I heard, Lord Stark is in the king’s dungeons.”

Here is a motive, Ygritte thinks. “Would you join him if you could?”

He gives a little half shake of his head. “When first I heard, I saddled a horse and fled the Night’s Watch,” he admits. “My brothers … I mean the other black brothers of the watch, fetched me back.”

“So now that you’re free, will you seek a way to go to him?” Ygritte asks.

“No,” Jon says. “If I showed up at Robb’s camp a deserter, he would take my head off. And it would hurt him more than it would me.”

He quickens his pace at that point and Ygritte has to jog to keep up.

 

If Jon is meant to be a spy, he is a singularly inept one. Or the least subtle spy that Ygritte can imagine. He wanders everywhere throughout the camp. He talks to everyone and asks the kind of questions that worry her.

“How many fighters in your group?” he asks each leader blandly. “Are they armed with good steel?”

Ygritte grits her teeth, but the free folk seem amused by Jon and they answer his questions cheerfully although not always honestly.

He spars with many of them, using tempered wood instead of steel. He eats and drinks with different groups. He dices like any soldier and laughs at their ribald jokes. Maybe he even makes such jokes, but not in Ygritte’s hearing.

She tracks him down one morning as he stands on a hill regarding the tents that belong to the Thenns.

“Are you trying to figure out how many Thenns are marching?” she asks bluntly. “They’ve brought their families with them – women and children and old folk.”

“How many fighters per tent?” he asks.

“About two or three,” she guesses.

"So about 300 fighters,” he muses.

Ygritte blinks in surprise. “How do you figure that?”

“If there’s two per tent, that would 240, but if some have three, then it’s about 300 or a little more,” he shrugs.

“How do you count so fast?” she asks.

“It’s math,” he answers.

Ygritte glares. “I suppose you can read ‘n write as well?”

He nods. “We had a Maester at Winterfell.”

Ygritte does not know if even Mance can read and write. Probably not more than a dozen free folk can write their names. Like many illiterate people, she thinks of reading as akin to magic. It occurs to her that Jon might have means of communicating with his former black brothers that she hasn’t thought of.

“Can you show me?” she asks.

He snorts. “Do you have parchment and ink lying about?”

“No.”

“Well then, no.”

She’s not the only one who is curious about Jon. The free folk are not numerous. Although they mostly live in distant villages, they trade and intermarry so no-one is truly a stranger. When Ygritte left the village of her birth to join a different group, she had quickly met distant cousins and people who knew of her family members.

But Jon, despite his family’s connection to the North is truly unknown. And for many people, the exotic is attractive.

Ygritte spends a good bit of her time with other fighters and spearwives so she hears the speculation – much of it bawdy - about Jon. Some of the younger women are annoyed that he has rebuffed their advances.

“Maybe he prefers boys,” Mara suggests as she sharpens her knives around a fire one evening.

“I don’t think so,” Klara disagrees. “He LOOKED when I gave him a chance. He just didn’t do anything about it.”

“What do you mean he looked?” Ygritte queries. “At what?”

“I sort of loosened my cloak and let it fall open when I bent over,” Klara explains mischievously. “His eyes just about popped out, but then he jumped up and fled.”

Ygritte giggles.

“He’s a green boy,” Lisette sneers. “Still a child. Even if you got him on his own in a tent, he wouldn’t be able to do naught. Wouldn’t know what to do.”

“He’s not,” Ygritte objects. “A green boy can’t swing a sword like he can.”

“Maybe you know more than you’re letting on?” Klara suggests with a leer.

It’s no secret among the free folk that Ygritte spends most of her time following Jon around.

Ygritte snorts. It’s customary for people to be discrete and deny their relationship especially in the early days so it doesn’t matter what she says. The free folk will believe what they like.

“Maybe he’s gelded,” Mara pipes up.

“What makes you think that?” Ygritte asks in shock.

“That’s what they do,” Mara insists. “I heard it from one of the fighters. They came across the body of dead ranger so they stripped him down and he was … he didn’t have … you know …”

“Gross,” Lisette declares.

Ygritte doesn’t think that Jon is gelded or interested in boys, but she takes the opportunity to ask him the next time they are alone.

The vehemence of his response is comical.

“No!” he snarls fiercely. “Where did you … what makes you think?”

“I heard that’s what they do in the Night’s Watch,” she says blandly.

“No,” he says angrily.

“So you like girls?” she clarifies.

“Yes!”

“But you’ve rebuffed everyone who’s flirted with you,” she points out. “Do you have someone at Castle Black? A woman waiting for you?”

“No,” he snaps. “There are no women at Castle Black.”

“Not even cooks? Washerwomen? Bedwarmers?”

He shakes his head.

“That must be tough,” she observes slyly. “I guess it makes sense that the men turn to each other for … comfort.”

He scowls. “We take our vows seriously.”

“There are no septs here in the North,” she points out.

“I didn’t swear my vows in a sept,” he says loftily. “I’m of the North so I swore to my father’s gods – the Old Gods of the forests.”

“What are these vows?” Ygritte presses. “What did you promise?”

“To take no wives, father no children,” he explains.

“Who said anything about a wife?” Ygritte says. “A dance under the skins is not a wedding.”

“I’m bastard-born,” he says stubbornly. “I won’t father a bastard myself.”

“You know there are ways to pleasure a girl without risking a child?”

He looks as flustered as she’s EVER seen him.

Ygritte grins.

“I hear someone calling for me,” he claims and stalks off.

It worries her though – that he continues to hold to such vows.

It worries other people too. Varamyr Sixskins is vehement in his hatred and mistrust of Jon.

“Might as well sleep with a poisonous snake,” he warns Mance in Ygritte’s hearing. “He’s a warg, but a bad one. He’ll turn on you at first chance.”

“He’s given me no reason not to believe him,” the king responds softly. “So far …”

“He clings to his Southern ways,” Rattleshirt grumbles.

“He wanders,” one old leader says. “Doesn’t stay with any group for any length of time.”

It crosses Ygritte’s mind that she’s crossed a line from watching Jon to gather evidence against him to watching Jon to protect himself from his own poor instincts. When had that happened, she wonders.

She stays away from him for a day to think.

So Jon is strong, a fierce fighter, smart and educated …

But there are other fierce fighters among the free folk and who needs an education in the North?

He’s a turncoat, she reminds herself. That makes him untrustworthy.

But does it take courage to walk away from the certainty of life with the Night’s Watch? Or is he craven?

She follows him closer, snuggling up to him in their sleep one night. If he makes a move, I won’t refuse him, she thinks to herself. You can learn much about a man under the skins.

But Jon takes to sleeping with his direwolf.

He is aware of her, she knows. When they stop for a meal around the fire, she can sense his eyes on her even though he looks away as soon as she glances at him. It becomes like a game.

He tells her of castles and feasts, of swordfighting lessons in turrets, and snowball fights in the yard. He speaks warmly of his littlest sister Arya and rather less warmly of his stepmother.

Ygritte tries to teach him about the North – about the Giants who are dying out and the freefolk’s way of life that is under siege.

She’s frustrated with his ignorance.

She senses that he is listening and learning, but clinging to what he knows.

She feels like she’s on the verge of a breakthrough with him when he is suddenly attacked by an eagle.

Rattleshirt wants him to face Mance. Ygritte is worried, but Jon climbs onto his garron, still bleeding and snarls at Rattleshirt.

“Are we talking, or are we riding?”

At the top of the hill, Mance is angry. He’s furious. He wants to know what happened and who led the Night’s Watch brothers on this ranging.

Everyone can see Jon hesitate.

Ygritte’s heart is in her mouth.

Jon looks mulish.

“Tell me true,” Mance growls.

“The old Bear,” Jon admits grudgingly.

Now Mance is furious.

He wants to know why Jon is lying; he’s wondering what Jon is doing with the freefolk.

Jon argues that he doesn’t wear the Night’s Watch black cloak any more. "I wear the cloak you gave me, your Grace," he says warily.

Ygritte steps in. “A sheepskin cloak,” she argues fiercely. “And there's many a night we dance beneath it, too.”

Mance is a romantic. He’s a leader and he’s a soldier, but he also loves romance. The idea of a man doing something reckless and foolish for love is irresistible to him.

Ygritte holds her breath and prays that Jon understands the thin thread of hope she’s holding.

“Is this the truth of it?” Mance grumbles. “You and her?”

“Yes,” Jon nods and Ygritte wishes he looked less tortured by the admission.

Mance’s anger is spent. It’s typical of him to flare up and then settle quickly. He dismisses them. “You'll go with Jarl and Styr on the morrow then. Both of you. Far be it for me to separate two hearts that beat as one.”

Ygritte grabs Jon’s arm and pulls him away so she can tend to his face, which is still weeping blood.

“Why did you do that?” he asks softly. “I never asked you to lie for me."

“You’re such a fool,” she says sadly.

“I understand more than you realize,” he tells her.

“Well you’ll have to play your part,” she says. “If not …”

“I get it,” he interrupts.

Ygritte opens her mouth to say something and suddenly Jon is kissing her, his hand sliding behind her neck to pull her close. It's brief, but fierce and leaves Ygritte breathless.

“Your wolf will sleep somewhere else tonight,” Ygritte tells him fiercely.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Ygritte has readied herself for the morrow and gathered her stuff together, it is pitch black. She takes her torch and makes her way to where Jon has settled his gear.

There is no sign of Ghost. 

Ygritte can see that Jon has just climbed into his sleeping skins and is settling them around him. He’s brought them with him along with the the rest of his black brother gear and they are of fine quality and sown together at the bottom and on one side to make a kind of sleeping 'sack'.

"You haven’t started without me, have ya?" she teases.

He responds with a witty retort. "Thought you'd got cold feet," he says. "Figured I was going to have to chase you down."

"Ha!" she laughs, stripping off her outer furs swiftly and hanging them to dry.

It's bloody cold so she shimmies out of her clothes and jumps into the sleeping bag as quick as she can.

Jon is a gentleman so he holds the furs up for her and keeps to one side to give her room.

"Not going to be shy, are you?" she asks, reaching for him.

"Course not," he murmurs and then surprises her by leaning over and kissing her.

The sleeping sack is comfortable for one, but a tight fit for two. Jon covers her body with his own and she wraps her legs around his and slides under him, grateful for his heat.

Up to now she has been the pursuer and he has been shy so this kiss is a welcome surprise.

He is gentle and a bit tentative so she opens her mouth and kisses him harder.

He responds with more fevour.

She slides her hands under the coarse shift he wears and tugs. He obligingly breaks off the kiss to peel it off and then kisses her again.

She runs her hands across his torso and moans in delight.

Jackpot!

She knew he was built under all those furs.

He’s far from a callow youth - although his beard is soft and wispy, his chest hair is thick and curly. She runs her hands along his hard, muscled torso from the waistband of his pants up and over the curve of his chest and shoulders.

She murmurs in pleasure and arches her back to press against him.

She squeezes a bicep in delight. There’s no softness to him. He is hard and lean and powerful.

She runs her fingers up his neck and tangles them in his thick, curly hair. She tugs down and he shifts obligingly, his lips brushing along her jaw and down her neck to her breasts.

Her skin is acutely sensitive.

She moans as he kisses her breast and then tentatively kisses her nipple.

"Oh yes, Jon, please ..."

He licks and then suckles.

How long has it been for her? The last time she took a boy to bed, it was little more than a rushed bump and grind, and the time before, she'd been pissed drunk and had fucked that fellow up against a tree ...

It’s hot under their furs, she’s slick with sweat and desire.

Jon switches to the other breast and she urges him on.

"So sweet," she murmurs. 

His beard tickles. She arches her back wanting more.

He covers her body with his own again, his lips back on hers, damp skin rubbing against skin ...

"Oh fuck, that's good," she groans. "I want ... I want ..."

"Shush," he whispers against her lips. "Do you want everyone to hear?"

She laughs breathlessly. "Oh Jon, the way we're going, everyone in camp is going to hear me scream."

She reaches for him, sliding her hand under the waistband of his pants.

He gasps as she touches him, sliding, stroking, rolling her thumb in a slow circle.

"Say my name," she whispers.

"Ygritte," he says promptly. And then, "Ygritte - Ygritte - Ygritte . .."

She pulls him to her and guides him inside.

He makes a kind of strangled groan.

She doesn't know how long it's been since he lay with a woman, but she's willing to bet it's been a while.

She wraps her legs around his and digs his nails into his back. He pushes and starts to rock.

She bites his shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat.

He won't last long. That she can tell. She tilts her hips and tightens her own muscles, seeking that sweet rhythm.

He kisses her fiercely.

His own rhythm has become ragged.

"Hold on," she murmurs, running her hands down to his hips.

He obeys, slowing down, but his breathing is rough. The muscles in his arms are hard and corded as he holds himself tight above her.

Ygritte can feel the coil of her arousal building.

Jon gasps and shudders as he spills his seed.

He moves as if to withdraw but she grips his hips. "Not yet. I'm not done yet," she warns him.

He’s not soft yet.

He rocks his hips and she pulls him close. A few more thrusts and then she's crying out in pleasure as her orgasm sweeps through her.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon Snow knows more than Ygritte thinks.

He sits beside the fire, scraping up the last of his stew while the sun dips below the horizon.

His gear is gathered; he is ready for tomorrow. He’s not so sure that he's ready for tonight.

He is aware, for example, that Ygritte is suspicious of him and his reasons for joining the freefolk. 

He is aware that others have doubts as well. His reluctance to take advantage, so to speak, of what some of the lovely free women have offered has raised concern among many. They doubt his commitment to their cause.

He understands that Ygritte is offering him an alibi of sorts, a reason for deserting that makes sense to Mance and many other wildings.

Under ordinary circumstances, Jon would sneer at the idea that he would foreswear his vows for a woman.

He licks his spoon idly.

The issue of his vows trouble him. He can maybe rationalize breaking the vows to the Night’s Watch since Qhorin Halfhand charged him with doing WHATEVER IT TAKES to learn about the strength of Mance’s army. Jon tells himself that obeying such an order is more important than the specifics of the vow.

But what of other vows?

He licks his lips, imagining the taste of Ygritte on his lips. It’s been so long since he kissed anyone.

When he was a young boy, barely old enough to be interested in girls, he'd played a castle game commonly known as catch and kiss. It had involved a lot of running up and down turret stairs, and fierce battles with wooden swords, and rather a lot of kissing fair maidens in secret hidden places.

He can still remember spending most of an afternoon holed up in an alcove kissing Jayne Poole. They hadn't done anything more than kiss, but the memory of her lips on his has tormented many a lonely night ever since.

Not long after learning exactly what a bastard is and how men GET bastards, Jon had taken himself off to his father's heart tree to swear not to father any bastards himself. Nor to do anything that might risk a bastard.

Yes, Jon knows that there are ways to pleasure a woman without risking pregnancy.

But how to foreswear THAT vow?

He shifts uneasily. It’s almost full dark now and Ygritte will be waiting for him.

His cock, which has a mind of its own and has never been fully on board with his plans for celibacy, is already half hard in anticipation.

He knows what his role will be tonight. He understands the mechanics of sex - how can he not? But he has to confess that some aspects are still a mystery.

Do women like sex?

Much of the education bestowed on the boys of Winterfell would suggest that women, at least high class women, do not like sex.

The boys were always taught to 'respect' high class girls, to protect them and to guard their chastity.

But, Jon had also learned a thing or two from Theon who had been older and more experienced.

Actually, Lord Stark would doubtless be shocked by how much of their knowledge of sex his boys had gleaned from Theon who was forever being warned to behave regarding the ladies of Winterfell.

Theon had bragged of women 'panting' for him and screaming in delight in his bed. He'd bragged of blow jobs and hinted at other 'dirtier' acts.

He'd taken Robb and a few other Winterfell boys (but never Jon) off to brothels and he'd told ribald stories that were hard to believe.

Jon looks around and realizes that other than the sentries, he is alone at the fire. The sun has long since set and his bowl is licked clean.

Ghost watches him. 

"Go hunt," Jon urges him. "I don’t need a guard tonight." Or a witness, he thinks to himself. 

Ghost bounds off into the darkness and Jon makes his way to his own sleeping skins, somewhat surprised that Ygritte is not already waiting for him.

He strips down to his pants and an undershirt and climbs shivering under his sleeping skins.

A moment later, Ygritte appears with a faint candle providing a dim guide.

"Ya haven't started without me, have you?" she calls out cheerfully.

He wishes she would be a little more circumspect. It’s not that the people snuggled under nearby skins are innocent as to what goes on between a man and a woman sharing their sleeping skins, but Jon would prefer not to be the centre of anyone's attention.

"I thought you'd got cold feet," he retorts. "Was thinking that I'd have to go searching all over camp for you."

"Ha!" she laughs, blowing out her candle.

In the darkness, he can only hear the rustle as she removes her outer furs and hangs them on strategically placed sticks.

He shifts over to give her room under the furs.

"You’re not going to be shy, are you?" she asks boldly, as she climbs into the sack and reaches for him, sliding herself almost under him.

He leans over to kiss her, more to shut her up than anything else.

She is stark naked.

He holds himself taut, anxious not to crush her beneath him.

Her breasts, small and firm, press up against him. Oh how he has dreamt of breasts. They are his weakness. He has battled his urges for years, but nothing sets him off more than a glimpse of cleavage or the soft swell of breasts beneath a thin blouse.

Ygritte kisses him harder, her teeth nipping at his lips and he responds in kind - fierce and hard.

She tugs at his shirt and he yanks it off, hardly caring if he tears it.

She runs her hands, small, delicate long fingered hands along his torso and whispers in apparent approval.

He'd been worried that she would object that he was shaggy, unshaven, and unwashed, but she rakes her nails along his skin and moans in delight.

He dares to lower himself so his skin touches hers and he wonders at how exquisitely sensitive each bit of his skin has become.

She tugs, none so gently, on his hair and he dips his head, his lips trailing along her jaw, then neck, then down to her breasts.

Oh heaven.

He kisses her tentatively, savoring the feel of her skin, then licks uncertainly. Her nipple stiffens under his lips and she cries out.

Emboldened, Jon suckles.

"Oh yes. Oh Jon!" she exclaims.

It’s very hot under the fur; Jon can feel sweat beading on his skin as he slides bare skin against bare skin.

Ygritte moans and gasps.

He shifts, covering her mouth with his own.

"Shush," he murmurs.

She laughs at him and then reaches down between their bodies. Her fingers slide under the waistband of his pants and dance cleverly along his cock.

Jon cannot stifle his gasp.

As often as he's touched himself - and thank god he's sworn no vows prohibiting THAT - he's never experienced anything quite as amazing as Ygritte’s skillful touch.

She nibbles at his ear. "Say my name," she murmurs.

"Ygritte," he answers promptly and then like a promise, "Ygritte - Ygritte - Ygritte ..."

She slides her knee up and guides him inside. She’s hot and wet and tight and Jon cannot think of anything beyond the reality of their bodies moving as one.

Ygritte runs her hands down his body and settles on his hips.

"Slow down," she whispers and he obeys against every instinct.

He is close to the edge and aware that he should withdraw if he wants to avoid ... if he wants to minimize the risk ... but he just can't.

He gasps as he spills his seed, Ygritte’s legs wrapped around his, her nails raking his back, and her breath hot in his ear.

He buries his nose in the crook of her neck and shifts to separate from her.

"Not yet," she murmurs.

He is uncertain, but follows her lead.

She closes her eyes and shifts her hips to a rhythm that matches his. He can feel her clench and relax. She moans. She gasps. 

And finally, when he can feel himself softening, Ygritte throws back her head and cries out. Her whole body shudders.

Afterwards, Ygritte falls asleep in his arms and Jon ponders.

Why had no-one told him that sex would be like this?

Robb could have said something. He wasn't promiscuous like Theon, but he was popular enough with girls. Obviously, he knew.

But no, Robb had known of Jon’s vow. Maybe he'd thought it cruel to describe what Jon was foreswearing.

And why had no-one ever explained that women also experienced orgasms?

Theon's brag about making women scream in his bed is wholly inadequate.

It will be harder now to hold to his vows, Jon realizes.

Uncle Benjen had warned him not to take vows until he understood what he was missing. 

It’s wonderful to lie wrapped up in furs, naked and warm, with a beautiful woman in his arms.

He wants to figure out how to make Ygritte moan and groan in pleasure again.

He might not know much, but he’s willing to learn.


End file.
